You look at me like a new purse.

You like to have me hang around.

Though, I do admit, I like hanging around.

But there's something odd about the way you look at me,

The way you like me, it could be said.

In your eyes, my best qualities are words

That even Bukowski would be ashamed

To say to my mother.

I love my mother, though.

So I don't want her to know that I'm naked,

Or that you're naked,

Or that your ass matches my lap.

It wouldn't be right.

Besides, I never liked Bukowski.
 
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